


until then

by bookhousegirl



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Boston Red Sox, Concussions, Crushes, Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 16:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookhousegirl/pseuds/bookhousegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock’s shoelace has a knot. For Travis, on most days, that’s absolutely all it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until then

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Travis Shaw’s tweet about how much he missed Brock Holt, and just a small idea I had for a while. Writing about the Red Sox as a break from the Bruins is just a way to help me keep writing when I'm having such a hard time staying motivated to do so.
> 
> Brock Holt went on the DL on May 19, but the Sox believed his concussion was from May 9 against the A’s when Brock was playing 2nd base in the eighth and made a dive for a ball that was out of reach. That game was extraordinary offensively, for Holt and especially for Travis Shaw, who had three hits and three runs, and they got to play together in the infield too.
> 
> Much love and many thanks as always to Las.
> 
> If you read this, thank you and I hope you like it.

 

At the end of the bench, Brock is struggling to untie his cleats. Travis can see he has his left leg hitched up, bent at the knee, heel pressed along his upper thigh. His fingers are picking at a fine little knot of a dusty tan shoelace, twisted and stuck next to the metal of the bracket.

Brock removes his cap and runs his hand through the now cropped golden hair that Travis feels like he’ll never get used to. There was a Bible story he knew from growing up about how a man of the sun lost his strength when he lost his hair. There’s no comparison - Brock has never been vain about his hair and his skills seem intact whether his hair is short or long - but Travis feels a loss, even if that’s a completely stupid notion. Brock is Texas twang and chocolate labs and a perfect smile and flowing locks.

He’s giving Travis one of those perfect smiles right now. “Got some help for me, bud?” he asks, looking up as Travis comes lumbering down the steps and slides next to him.

“Sure.”

“God, I just wanted to take them off before I get in there. I got a crapload of dirt in them today.” Brock sighs, more annoyed than he’d usually be about something like this. “And I must’ve cut my nails too short or my fingers just aren’t working today.”

There are a few people left on the field from practice. Matty and Heath are strolling around in the outfield grass, just near the pen, and Robbie is pretending to catch home runs in his cap. He lays himself out a few times in increasingly ludicrous ways and Travis snickers. Only a few reporters are there, mostly fawning over Papi near the backstop.

“Give it here.” Travis gestures to Brock’s cleat and before Brock can answer or act, he pulls Brock’s foot onto his thigh to inspect the shoelace.

“Warn a guy, please,” Brock hisses, but lets his body turn sideways on the bench.

“This is really something,” Travis marvels, shaking his head.

“You’re telling me.” Brock unhelpfully smacks the hard leather of his heel against Travis’ upper leg repetitively.

“Stay still, jesus!” It’s not exactly how he wants it, but it’s so nice, to have his best friend back like this, even for practice, even for a few hours. He wraps the fingers of his right hand in a circle around Brock’s ankle, covered by his equally filthy sock. It might work just to slip the cleat off but it’s tied crazily tight and he doesn’t want to hurt Brock by just yanking it off.

Because he’s antsy or anxious to get home or just not his typically chill self today, Brock leans forward to check out the progress on his shoelace and notes, “Have your thighs gotten bigger or something? Because good work, dude, this is like a solid wall of muscle.” He punctuates this compliment by moving his foot again.

There’s more laughter from the field as the group of relievers start jogging lazily from the outfield. The sudden noise seems to burst the little bubble of the dugout peace and Brock looks over slowly, his eyes a little glazed, like he’s trying to focus on Travis’ face. “They told me this morning it’s still going to be awhile,” he says easily, in a voice that sounds like he practiced it in his head.

Travis knows Brock is thoughtful in a way that doesn’t require so much thought, his openness and ability to be constantly at ease are just natural outward extensions of the person that he is. It’s still a work in progress for Travis to move from his own shyness. This team is one of personalities, and large ones at that. Whether it’s Papi’s all-encompassing joviality or Pedey’s fierceness and expectations or Hanley’s stubborn streak or Brock’s invariable cool, the players themselves are individual sparks that light up a world Travis has started to cement his place in. His father always said his quietness was a virtue, that he was a sponge, soaking it all in. A year ago, bouncing up and down, trying to prove his worth, he never could have imagined David Price letting his dog relax on his chair, never could have fathomed being elected the mayor of Ding Dong City.

And yet here he is, with Brock’s foot in his lap, still learning new pieces, yes, but a piece at a time.

“I want to start my rehab assignment, you know? Practice is great and I’m happy to be with you guys,” he waves a hand generally at the field, where the grounds crew has started to drag the rakes through the dirt. “I can’t do anything else. I just feel useless.”

“You must be doing better, though. You caught some of my shots to left.” Travis plays absently with the fibers of the shoelace, giving up any pretense of actually trying to fix it now. He tries to ignore the tightness in his thigh, with Brock’s foot still propped on him, with Brock’s leg still stretched out, agile and loose.

Brock shrugs in response. “I can shag nine out of ten with no problems. And then that tenth, it’s the movement or the positioning of my body or the way I turn my head or anything really, and it’s all messed up. All of the sudden. So that shows I’m not ready. Like I might as well be at square one. And that just sucks, man.”

“This one summer it was the worst summer ever because I broke my arm. And I couldn’t do anything, no pool, no bike riding, no driving around, no amusement parks, and definitely no baseball. It was the worst.”

It’s good to hear Brock laugh, even if he says after, “And you lived in Ohio, so it must have been the most boring ever.”

Travis snorts. “Says a guy who admits he grew up in a town that didn’t even have a mall.”

“You’re right.” Brock taps his fingers carelessly against Travis’ practice jersey, brushing his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m from the most boring town. We all know that.”

He feels a little desperate, to say the right thing, to give Brock some confidence back, to assist him in moving from the space in his head where he’s useless to the way Travis sees him, which is always relevant, always vital, always the most in every way. But it’s nothing he has experience with, and now he’s just as useless, because offering banalities about a potentially career-threatening condition is like saying “I’m sorry” when someone has lost something truly important. It’s in the forefront of all their minds even though no one can bear to say it: Brock’s play is dazzling and gutsy and inspired, but one more, _one more_ , and he’s done. For good.

Brock has leaned his head back against the cement wall of the dugout and his eyes are closed. Maybe he’s tired or maybe he has a headache and doesn’t want to admit that as well.

“You know what sucks, what really sucks about that day I got hurt?” he asks lazily, turning his head very slowly, and opening his eyes. He looks focused on Travis’ face now, like someone breathed on a dirty glass and wiped it clear, and Travis breaks eye contact. “That was my favorite game. You were on fire that day, you were just hitting so well. And we got to turn a double play with X-Man.”

Travis watches Brock’s face as he looks at the infield, like he can see it happening before his eyes, their perfect dance of groundball, throw, throw to turn it. Brock smiles loosely. “You were spectacular. I’m glad I got to see that.”

“That was my favorite game too,” Travis says back. “While we were playing it. Not after.” He’s felt sick with guilt about the private admission since it happened. It seemed illicit to carry that around, but with Brock here, saying it too, it’s probably okay.

“Yeah,” Brock nods. “You gave me a good hug too.”

Travis feels a flush heat his cheeks. He dips his head and says, warily, “I think those probably go both ways.” He knows that one thing he hasn’t been exactly shy about is how much he likes Brock’s hugs.

Like a benevolent hurricane, Papi at last stomps through the dugout to make his way to the clubhouse, breaking the thread of tension and cutting them loose. He sees them at the end of the bench and shouts, “You two! You need to go home okay! Get some rest now!”

“Gotta do what the boss man says,” Brock notes, pulling his foot off of Travis’ thigh, ridiculously knotted shoelace long forgotten, like Brock’s cleat was holding down a lever that kept them locked in. Now that it was lifted, conversation over, life could speed up and move on again. They go together down to the clubhouse, where Brock whacks his shoe against the wall of the hallway several times before just ripping off the cleat in frustration.

Travis waits. He doesn’t have to. He plans to run on the treadmill before going home anyway, but things with Brock are not finished. In a lot of ways, but particularly the conversation today. After changing into shorts and a workout shirt, he sits in his chair, moving a baseball back and forth between his hands.

When Brock emerges from the shower he looks like himself again, like the act of washing away the physical remnants of the day’s practice could birth new life. Or the old life, before concussions and headaches and the fragility of every fly ball, every at bat, every day.

“You didn’t have to wait,” he says as he takes his wallet and keys from his shelf. “You’re too good to me today.”

Travis smiles and tries to joke, “I think I’m pretty good to you every day.”

“Fair,” Brock responds, tilting his head to the side, and he says it in that smooth, uncomplicated way that has the effect, whether intended or not, of making Travis feel wholly good about himself. Together they walk to the players’ lot and he stupidly waits at the window of Brock’s truck to say goodbye.

“I just wanted to say before, and I didn’t get to, you’re gonna heal, Brock. You’re gonna heal, and come back so strong, and we’re gonna have lots more games like that one against the A’s.” Travis wraps his fingers around the frame of the opened truck window. The metal is warm against his skin and he leans forward, resting his forehead against Brock’s arm because he doesn’t want to see his face. “We’re gonna have so many favorite games we won’t even be able to choose.”

Brock starts the engine and cups the back of Travis’ almost-shaved head, holding him in a strange form of a hug. “Yeah, I believe you.” Brock’s voice is so soft when he adds, “But until then, that’s still the one.” He lets go and all the charm and calm slip back into his face as he angles his truck out of the cramped spot.

Travis waves and jogs quickly across the street. A Tasty Burger sounds really good right about now, but there’s still some training he wants to do. He should work on his timing, maybe breakdown some video after his run. There’s so much to do until then.

**Author's Note:**

> Travis is on record as saying he needs lots of hugs and he and Brock Holt like to hug a lot. For some reason this link wouldn't embed but: http://nesn.com/nesn-clubhouse/players/small-talk-red-sox-third-baseman-travis-shaw-answers-your-questions/


End file.
